


On the Art of Truth

by Ghelik



Series: Short Stories [7]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Boys In Love, F/M, Scratching, unbetad, warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris loves Michaela. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her and share everything with her. But it seems there are things that are not meant to be shared</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Art of Truth

Chris had always considered himself an average man. Not all too bright, not all too handsome, not all too bright. He just sort of… was. He liked peanut-butter ice-cream and long warm showers, and for the last few years, he has liked Michaela. She was kind and beautiful and the best thing that had ever happened to him. He was very much in love with her and wanted to be the rest of his life by her side, share everything with her.

  
He grimaces at the long scratch on his abdomen when he notices it on the bathroom mirror.

  
There is a milliard little scratches all over his arms and his belly and his back, most of them have turned either to silvery scars or to flat red lines. Most everyone thinks they’re from his best friends’ cat. It’s no that he’s ashamed of them, on the contrary, he’s always been fascinated by all manner of scars. But.

  
He sighs.

  
Well… If Michaela notices – when she notices – he’s invented a million excuses over the years.

  
He brushes the scratch with a thumb, he likes the sting of it.

  
Chris dresses quickly and hopes she won’t ask.

 

 

He’s absently rubbing at a small scratch near his knee, watching the news on the internet. It’s been a horrible few weeks. His job has been hectic, and his mom has started calling again – it’s never good news when his mom starts calling again.- He might have gone a little bit overboard. Every day there seems to be new blood beneath his fingernails, there are scabs all over the floor and between his teeth. He’s been sitting at his computer for an hour now, without really seeing any of the news-videos that are playing on his browser when Michaela lets herself in.

  
“You’re bleeding,” she says rather loudly and runs to grab a paper tissue before he can tell her it’s ok. She dabs at the few drops, frowning, probably at his fingers, with the bloody fingernail-beds and the skinned tips. He used to bite his fingernails, but his father made him break the habit. Instead, he started scratching at the calloused fingertips until the skin came loose and he could just pull it.

  
“Really, Chris… You should take better care of yourself.”

  
He pulls her into his lap. He doesn’t care about the blood-stains but is careful to not get any on her clothes. He should probably tell her. But not now when she’s decided he’s had enough bad news and puts a vine-compilation instead because there’s “this vid you have to see.”

 

 

 

Michaela’s very serious, one of his arms in her hands. They’re so pale, the nails perfectly manicured – except for her index finger where the paint is slightly chipped. The new scratch covers the inside of his arm, from elbow to wrist and it’s infected: angry red, the scab soft and brownish where’s slightly attached to the uneven edges. It will leave a nice scar, probably. Her nails are digging on the soft skin next to the wound, and her eyes are wide, very blue and very sad.

  
“Why do you do this to yourself?”  
  


He should have told her; maybe it would have been better than her catching him, very meticulously digging his nails into the skin.

  
“It helps me clear my head,” he answers, and he doesn’t know why his voice is so small, or why he can’t look her in the eye. It’s not like he feels ashamed of himself. Because he doesn’t, it’s not like he’s hurting himself. He doesn’t want to feel pain – is terrified of it actually – he wouldn’t grab a knife or a burning pot; doesn’t get a kick out of it. It’s a way of concentrating, of getting that tension off, pushing it out of his hands where it itches. A way not to hurt anyone again – he still remembers that time in middle school he broke that kid’s nose and fissured his jaw.

  
“And you can’t do yoga like everyone else?”

  
“It’s not a big deal. It’s really not important. Look” He shows her another long line that got infected and has closed perfectly, leaving only a silver line behind. “It happens, sometimes that it gets infected because I can’t leave it alone. But when that happens I take care of it.”

  
She’s shaking her head, and her grip is starting to hurt the over sensitized skin around the scratch.

  
“That’s not the point.”  
  


“Why not?”  
  


“It’s not healthy.”  
  


He can’t help but roll his eyes at her. Pulls his arm gently from her sharp grip. She’s left small half-moon-indentations on the white skin. “What do you want to hear? It’s only a way of letting off some steam. It doesn’t hurt anybody; it’s not like I’m maiming myself or something. And it’s not like I’m ruining anything anyway” he tries a smile, but her eyes are so sad, and he hates that look. He hates that she thinks she has to pity him like there’s something wrong with him.  
Chris loves her, really, he does. But at this moment he hates her, too.

  
“Chris…” says Michaela and takes his head between her hands, her eyes are huge, shining with tears, “you need help.”

  
He just stares at her.


End file.
